


Schrodinger's Wolves

by wynnebat



Series: Wolves at the Door [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Hale pack of Talia's day learns of their upcoming deaths, they summon an emissary from the future to weigh their loss against his future. They get Stiles, who has never been able to be impartial when it comes to people he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is only vaguely canon compliant after season 1. Also, nothing about the Teen Wolf timeline makes sense to me, so I've shifted the dates in a handwavey way. 
> 
> Hale family ages: Anton (45), Talia (44), Peter (29), Laura (19), Derek (16), Cora & Cleo (7), Matt (5). The year is 2004, a little under a year before the fire.
> 
> Warning for a not especially graphic torture scene in the last chapter.

"Could I interest you in a fortune-telling, madam?" The words were whispered and far away, but the wind carried them to Talia Hale's ears as it wouldn't to a regular woman's.

Talia was a modern wolf, and she had no use for fortune-telling in her life. It was Tuesday, her busiest day; between dropping various pack children at their activities, managing a small business, and checking in with Deaton about the fairy sightings in the woods, she didn't have a minute to spare. (Not to mention, her husband was a man of science, and she could already imagine him chuckling at the picture of her tapping her claws against a crystal ball.) But for once, she decided to stop. She had felt anxious lately for no good reason. Her family was safe, her pack was strong, and her life was complete. Nevertheless, fear had begun gripping her heart, waking her up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, giving her chills in a warm room. It would do her well, for someone to tell her a pretty lie about the world.

Maybe in another world, she wouldn't have stopped—maybe she would've scoffed silently to herself, ignoring the speaker, and headed home. Maybe this was true for all the worlds this decision occurred, all except for this one. Talia turned around.

"Oh," the woman who spoke said, from her position on the steps of a small fortune-teller's parlor. It was nestled between an independent bookstore and a Starbucks, which Talia thought might be why such nonsense was able to thrive in Beacon Hills. She believed in higher powers, because given the strange and wide and wonderful and terrible expanse of supernatural beings, it wasn't too out of the question for there to be someone up there. But fate? Fortune-telling? No one had the ability to see the future—except maybe for a god, and Talia wasn't nearly important for a visit from one. The fortune-teller added, "I didn't expect you to turn around. Are you sure you're here for me?"

Talia raised an eyebrow. "Why else would I be here?" She walked back, closer to the fortune-teller, who was more of a girl than a woman, unlike Talia's first impression. She was in her late teens at the oldest, the age of Talia's oldest child, and was dressed in jeans and an faded band t-shirt. Strangely, Talia had never seen this girl around town.

Suddenly, the fortune-teller grinned. "That's great! Follow me." And with an energetic spin, she left the steps, sliding into the building.

Talia followed her at a more sedate pace, taking in the minimalist storefront. Twenty dollars for a ten minute session, a sign read, and Talia inwardly sighed and wondered what she was getting into. Frivolous spending really wasn't in her budget. Not when she had one kid in college and another halfway through high school. And especially not when there would be a pricey Hale family reunion this summer, for which various grandparents and cousins and significant others would fly in.

The back room was far more like Talia would've imagined a fortune-teller's parlor to look like: purple drapes, faint lighting, a nearly overwhelming smell of incense, and various crystal balls, tea sets, and stacks of cards. On the small table in the middle of the room was a large, murky crystal ball. Talia took a seat at the table, and the fortune-teller sat down across from her, tapping on the crystal ball.

"Have you ever wondered what the future holds in store for you?"

"Hasn't everyone?"

"Quite. But some are more suited to seeing through the folds of time. And when they wonder, their wondering bears fruit." The fortune-teller's gray eyes bored into Talia's, and Talia began to feel a little light-headed. It was a combination of the fumes in the room, too sweet and heavy, and the worry nagging at her mind.

The fortune-teller ran her hand over the crystal ball and began to chant, but the ball did not get any less cloudy, nor did Talia have a sudden flash of intuition about her future. Instead, she felt very silly all of a sudden. She wished to go home, to see her husband and children, to nag her brother, to smile at her pack.

And then the fortune-teller grew quiet. "Do you see anything?"

"No," Talia said, without trying very hard to make an image of the clouds.

The fortune-teller sighed. "My mother does this better than me."

"You do look a bit young to be telling fortunes," Talia replied.

"I'm much better at just telling you what I see." The fortune-teller paused, and moved the crystal ball aside, before saying, "Your pack is going to die."

In milliseconds, Talia was standing, her claws digging into the wooden table. "What did you just say?" She didn't touch the fortune-teller; anyone who knew of werewolves also likely knew of mountain ash, and she'd rather wait for the perfect moment than get knocked back right away.

"I didn't mean it like that. Please don't be angry," the fortune-teller said anxiously. "I don't know your name. I don't know who you are. All I can see are glimpses of your future. Yours, and everyone else's."

"I suppose you didn't need a crystal ball to tell my fortune," Talia replied, still on her guard. Because despite the fortune-teller's heart corroborating her story, Talia would never take something like that for a fact.

"No," the fortune-teller replied. "It just makes it easier for the customers. But I'm not lying. You know I'm not lying. But if you want proof: your daughter will receive an 83% on her exam, the one she's been worrying about for weeks. Your son will lose his virginity in three months, on the twenty-third. Your husband wants to remove five thousand dollars from the business account, but he'll repay it within days. He'll approach you about it tonight. Your brother will lie to you when you get home. And you will all die. The Hale blood will end."

"Have you been following me?"

"You know I haven't," the fortune-teller replied.

And it was true; Talia had never before encountered her scent, never seen her face. If this was a prank or a scam, it was a very elaborate one. Too elaborate to be fake, yet too bizarre to be real. "I don't suppose you're talking about old age," Talia said, retracting her claws.

"No. It will be early and tragic, and there is no hope."

"Tell me more," Talia ordered.

The fortune-teller shook her head. "That's all I can say. I'm not allowed. I just... I wanted you to know, so that you could live before you died. It's inevitable, your pack's death."

"Like hell it is," Talia replied, and after a dozen questions the fortune teller couldn't answer, she walked out, her stride quick and confident. Because there were few things truly inevitable, and the death of her pack wasn't going to be one of them. Not if she could help it.

It was only later, after Peter told her _of course I had nothing to do with it_ , his heart artificially stable in a way that would've made Talia suspicious despite the warning, because if Peter was one thing, it wasn't innocent. After her husband told her he was thinking of buying, rebinding, and reselling a book, and only needed a couple grand. After her son came home with a stunned expression and a mumble about a new girl at school. It was only then that cold fear rushed through her, leaving her shaken. And determined. She asked Deaton for his aid in magic, Peter for his aid in research, and her husband for support. Because they were going to survive, even if Talia had to wage a war against fate.

.

In the two weeks that followed, Peter skimmed forty-six books, tracked down three witches, and helped ward the Hale house to hell and back. Ever since his sister had been told that the pack would die, he and the rest of the elders of the Hale pack had gotten roped into researching ways to survive. It was demanding work, and as someone with an actual job, he would've loved to pile all the work onto his favorite nephew. Sadly, Talia had elected to keep the bad news from the younger generation of the Hale family.

So when Deaton said, "I believe I have something of a solution," Peter wasn't feeling particularly enthusiastic. Especially since the book Deaton was holding looked suspiciously like the book he'd read the first day they'd begun researching. It figured, that the man would keep secrets even with two pack members a hair's width away from him.

"Thank god," Peter said, from his spot on top of an operating table in Deaton's back room, surrounded by piles upon piles of books.

Frankly, Peter wasn't exactly feeling hopeful about their chances. Not after Talia had returned to say that the fortune-teller had vanished, the parlor had been replaced by a pizzeria, and Deaton had mused that Talia's description of the woman resembled a member of a tribe of oracles. From what he'd been able to find out, oracle foretellings were very, very tricky to get out of.

Their deaths were fated.

Peter would've rather spent this time having some good drinks and better sex, but his alpha had a different plan. And so, he'd gotten more acquainted with their pack's emissary, and much less acquainted with a full night's sleep.

"What's the catch?" Talia asked.

As he opened to a specific section of the book, Deaton said, "This spell won't let us see the future. But it will allow us to bring someone from the future—an emissary—back for a short time, to judge whether our cause is just. If it is, the emissary will help us change history."

"And if they're biased against us?" Peter asked. Their clan was powerful and old; they hadn't gotten to where they were without making enemies.

"We only get one chance," Deaton said. "So if they're biased, we must persuade them to see things from our side."

"I see no way this could go wrong," Peter said, and sighed when he looked back at his sister and saw her determined expression. If there was a chance, she was going to take it. And so Peter stepped into the role of second in command, taking the book from Deaton and making sure his alpha's foolhardy move would be done as well as he could make it. He began to prepare the room for the ritual.

Talia moved to help him, saying, "Your argument is noted," and running a hand over his arm for comfort, like he was one of her kids instead of a man in his late twenties. It came with the territory of having a much older sister, one who'd always been more like a mother to him than anything else. He couldn't truly imagine her dead; he had few qualms with people dying—disturbingly few, according to Talia—but he didn't want her to die. She was one of the few who truly understood him, and Peter wasn't keen on allowing death to take her, even if he'd be dying at the same time.

It made him wonder, were they tearing this emissary from their pack? Is so, Peter doubted the emissary would be willing to change the future in a way that might turn their pack's chances for the worst.

But he doubted the emissary would be that loyal. As a whole, emissaries were solitary, more suited to lingering on the sides of a pack instead of being a true member. Some alphas didn't even consider their emissary a member of their pack. Deaton had little to no contact with the rest of the Hales. Talia was always their intermediary, and she and Deaton met once a week to discuss things. Even that was seen as more contact than necessary.

As for Peter... well, if he had his own pack, he'd never keep his emissary quite so far away. He'd integrate them into his pack, make them loyal, make them strong. But for now, it wasn't an issue. He was content to be Talia's second in command.

Carefully, he dragged his claws along Deaton's floor, etching symbols he didn't recognize into the floor. Talia filled the symbols with the essence of lavender and elfroot, while Deaton covered the area in wards. When the preparation was complete, Deaton began to chant.

It took minutes before a figure began to appear in the center of the circle, his profile dim and dark, then becoming colored in. A man whose smell Peter faintly recognized appeared in the circle. Like Deaton, he eschewed traditional emissary robes for regular clothes; in his case, jeans and a Batman t-shirt. He was younger than Peter had expected; he'd thought the man might be one of the emissaries he'd met at various werewolf conferences, but at what looked like twenty, he was a very young emissary.

Once the man fully appeared, his eyes flew open, and he tried to step out of the circle, but the symbols held him in place. He looked around the room, and for no reason Peter could imagine, the emissary's eyes locked onto Peter instead of the more formidable alpha or a likely familiar fellow emissary.

"I should've known you'd come back again," the stranger said, his tone resigned. As though the words had taken more than he had, the stranger began to fall down, his eyes closing.

The others moved forward, but Peter was the closest to the man, and caught him before he fell to the floor. He inhaled the stranger's scent, noting that it was completely clean of wolves or others, something that could never occur in reality. Despite knowing that it was the spell that had purged foreign smells from the man's body—likely so that they couldn't use them against him, Peter thought—a primal part of himself delighted in the fact that Peter's scent was the first to touch him. That on this man, who smelled of power and magic and strength, Peter's smell would linger for a short while.

"Well. That was interesting," Peter said, gently placing the stranger onto one of the tables, taking care with his limbs. He lowered the man's head last, wondering how exactly his and this stranger's paths had crossed.

In the meanwhile, Talia just cursed her luck, and hoped the emissary didn't judge their clan based on Peter.

.

When Stiles woke up, he was surprised to notice that neither his hands were tied, nor did he smell wolfsbane or elfroot around him. He pulled himself up from the operating table and sat there for a moment, staring at the captor sitting on a chair on the other side of the room.

He'd give them points for that, at least, though the fact that they weren't keeping him bound didn't belly the fact that they'd pulled him from his home, a place he'd always thought he'd be safe. With the amount of work he'd put into his wards, which had barely even allowed Stiles' own pack inside, he'd thought he'd be fine. He hadn't expected to be somehow teleported out and into the veterinary clinic by Peter, Deaton, and a strange woman. Especially since Peter and Deaton were dead, and the veterinary clinic had long been destroyed.

"What the hell is going on, Peter?" Stiles asked, eying the man carefully, noting everything that didn't make sense. Peter wasn't wearing his usual v-necks, instead dressed in jeans and a button-down, the top two buttons unbuttoned. Stiles carefully did not ogle at him, because he had better things to do. Like, "You've been dead for two years, and suddenly you come back looking a decade younger? And why am I here of all places?" He looked around, remembering the back room of the clinic well from when Scott had worked here. "Crap, am I in hell?"

"Of course you're not in hell. Death simply didn't suit me," Peter replied after a small pause.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "And Deaton?"

"Him as well," Peter said.

"Rebels, both of you," Stiles muttered, and clenched his fists. He felt sluggish and strange, like he'd skipped his meds for too long. "Did you kidnap me?"

"No, but someone else did. It's related to what happened to my family," Peter replied. His voice was too careful, too controlled. Nothing like Peter's usual drawl.

 _Of course. Everything was related to the Hales and the Argents,_ Stiles thought with a sigh. He nodded, trying to force his mind to work. This was wrong. It was all wrong, but he couldn't tell how. He supposed Peter could've found a way to make himself alive and young again—maybe he'd started bathing in the blood of virgins, that seemed to be right up his alley—but that didn't explain Deaton's back room. Why would someone recreate it of all things? If someone wanted to lull Stiles into a false sense of security, this really wasn't the best place to imitate. Instead of security, it brought up feelings of desperation and confusion and panic, because that was when he'd asked Deaton for help, hoping for an eleventh hour solution to whatever monster was terrorizing Beacon Hills this time. And if someone wanted to scare him... this was far too much effort for something that could be accomplished with a sharp knife.

"We don't have much time," Peter said, his words breaking through Stiles' thoughts. "I need to tell me everything you know about what happened that day."

Peter was speaking strangely, but that didn't mean he was an imposter; perhaps they were being monitored. Perhaps he'd turned evil, and this was his very long-awaited revenge for Stiles setting him on fire. But even that made little sense, and Stiles searched his brain trying to figure out what was happening. It had been too long since he'd been kidnapped; he'd forgotten how it felt, how to think, how to deal with it. Usually, he was the one trying to save various members of his pack.

"Sure," Stiles replied. "Just one thing—" What did only Peter know about him? His name was easy, his spark was common knowledge in certain circles, and Peter and himself had never been bosom buddies. "What did you tell me, that day on the beach?"

Peter—or maybe, the man pretending to be Peter—said, without skipping a beat, "I hate the beach."

And in return, Stiles didn't waste any time as he ran a hand over his clothed shoulder and brought out the mountain ash inside his tattoo. The dark grains flew into the air and began to twist into a shape, creating a web of mountain ash particles. Stiles lifted both hands, heedless of the roar the man wearing Peter's face gave. Peter had shifted into beta form, and was preparing to charge when the door flew open.

Stiles didn't let himself be startled, and spread the mountain ash net across a greater area. It wouldn't be very strong, but it would protect him until he could gather the rest of his magic. His reserves were low, like they'd been drained, and a nagging fear prickled in the back of Stiles' mind. There weren't many reasons for people to kidnap emissaries.

"Stop!" yelled the woman who'd entered the room, and Stiles barely noticed her, too focused on the man in front of him.

What he did notice was the way Peter glanced at her and reluctantly shifted back into his human form, obeying someone like he'd never obeyed Derek or Scott.

"You didn't need to break into a fight," the woman said, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder and looking at Stiles through the web of mountain ash in front of him. "We're not going to hurt you."

"What can I say, I'm more of a flee my kidnappers, then think about what they want, kind of guy," Stiles replied, thoroughly confused. The woman was undoubtedly an alpha, Peter's alpha.

"We haven't kidnapped you," she said, and began to move closer, further into the room.

Stiles twitched, but she was only moving to make way for Deaton to enter the room. "Really? I'm free to leave?"

"Yes. But... you can't go back to when you left. We've invoked _casus ritus_ , the destiny ritual," Deaton said.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. Even impersonated, Deaton was still shady and overdramatic. "I'll bite. What does it mean?"

"You're not aware of it? This ritual wouldn't have been in the handbook, but it was mentioned in Martinus' guide, in the section about the dangers of time travel."

Stiles shrugged. "I never got a formal emissary education. If those books survived until my time, you were never forthcoming enough to hand them off to me."

"Ah," Deaton replied, taken aback. "I had assumed you were my student; you seem to be at least somewhat familiar with the Hale pack, and the nearest emissary is somewhere in Canada, after all. But very well. You're currently in October of the year 2004."

 _You've got to be joking,_ Stiles thought, but no one in the room even broke a smile. As he glanced at the others, he noticed a small resemblance between Peter and the woman. If this was really 2004, then this was Talia Hale, alpha of the original Hale pack. Stiles had never even seen a picture of her.

"The ritual we used pulls an emissary from the future into the past, and only succeeds if there is something very important on the line," Deaton explained. "Talia Hale discovered that a catastrophe will befall the Hale family at some point in the future." In one year, Stiles thought. "And so, I—Emissary Alan Deaton—"

"I know who you are," Stiles said. "You don't have to introduce yourselves." He paused, then added, "I'm Stiles." Deaton's explanation was more believable than kidnappers pretending to be his dead friends, but Stiles would've preferred the kidnappers.

"I'm glad we're already acquainted," Peter said. "I apologize for my... deception," he added, the apology coming out as easy as any of his other pretty words. Stiles had a feeling he didn't mean a word of it.

But that was alright, because, "I would've done the same thing." To the others, he said, "What am I supposed to do?"

It was Talia who finally said, "You decide whether the future will be better off changed. All you need to do is make a deliberate change to the timeline, and the future will be rewritten."

"And what happens to me?"

There was regret in Deaton's eyes as he said, "You will stay in the past, and guide the future. That is your own price to pay for change."

By the end of Deaton's speech, Stiles had let his mountain ash protection fall and twirl back into tattoo form, embedding itself in his skin as two bands around his upper arm. He ran his fingers over the mark, the tattoo a constant reminder of Scott and his pack, even as Deaton spoke of Stiles being the only person able to save the Hale pack. But if Stiles decided to save the Hales, he'd never be able to go back to his own future. He'd stay in the past, and the future would simply recreate itself. He'd be utterly alone, without his best friend or his pack.

"I don't want to make this decision. Take me back, Deaton," Stiles said, tiredly. Just the thought of having to make this choice made him weary, because there was only one choice he could make.

"You don't have a choice, I'm afraid. You're an emissary. That means you're qualified enough to decide, to choose without bias. After one month passes, you may return to your own time, but no sooner."

Stiles closed his eyes. He was only an emissary because there had been no one left to do it; Deaton was dead, and the McCall pack had gotten a bad rep with how often they'd had an emissary die on their territory. When he opened them again, Talia stood in front of him.

"Please," Talia said, taking his hand. "Please give us a chance to convince you. You're our only hope."

Stiles swallowed. He could barely look in her eyes. "I'm not much of a hope."

"We'll take it," she said.

She didn't need a chance to convince him; he already knew too much about what would occur. He already cared too much for the Hale family. But not as much as he cared for his own family, the one he'd made in the future, and that gave him the strength to say, "I'll stay for one month, no longer."

"Thank you," Talia breathed.

Stiles' heart skipped a beat as he saw the relief in her eyes, and he thought, _This is going to be a long month._

.

A long, graveled driveway had led Stiles, Talia, and Peter far into the forest outside Beacon Hills. Stiles sat in the passenger seat of Talia's SUV, while Peter followed behind in a flashy, sleek car that Stiles thought Derek would've liked. It took almost ten minutes of winding slowly around copses of trees and hills until they reached a tall, three-story home. The half-moon gave it some light, but most came from the lights lit in almost every room.

Stiles looked up as he exited the house, whistling softly as he marveled in the architecture and the tall first floor windows. It was beautiful, and it had been so beautifully easy for Kate to surround in mountain ash and burn. He turned to Talia and Peter, who'd taken the time to leave their cars. "All this for one family?"

Talia smiled. "My grandparents built this house, once upon a time, and they had quite a number of children. Most have started their own packs or joined a pack; I stayed to build mine here. And I didn't have quite the temperament to have ten children. Only five."

As they approached the house, the front door opened, and the inhabitants of 1 Hale Lane spilled out. An older man was the first, and he came up to Stiles to greet him with a firm handshake. "Anton Hale, nice to meet you."

Stiles barely had time to respond before a flash of something barreled into him, wrapping furry arms around his legs. "I'm Matt! Mom says you're staying with us and know about werewolves and stuff, so you're kinda like pack!"

At Talia's glare, he shifted back into a human form, one of a brown-haired boy with blue eyes. He looked like a younger, much friendlier version of Derek. And oh, Stiles had a feeling he knew why Talia had insisted he stay with her family instead of with Peter or anywhere else, because anyone with a heart would've bent to the boy's whims.

And to the rest of the family's whims, because one by one the younger Hales introduced themselves. Derek only looked sixteen at most, while his twin younger sisters Cora and Cleo had to only be seven, the same age as Stiles' own younger self, wherever he was.

"And my big sister Laura is in college," Matt added. "You'll meet her over the phone!"

"I'm Stiles," Stiles said helplessly, torn with the knowledge that _this wasn't fair_. And as he looked back at Peter's knowing, calculating expression, he knew he understood.

.

("You're all bastards," he told Peter later that night, forgetting for a moment that this Peter wasn't the future one. That to this Peter Stiles was just a stranger.

By the rules of the ritual, the pack couldn't perform violence against him. But Stiles was pretty sure that the way Talia had sat him down between Matt and Peter and across from Derek at dinner was some kind of emotional warfare. She wasn't above playing on Stiles' heartstrings, and Peter wasn't above pointing out anything she might have missed about Stiles' weaknesses. They made a terrifyingly good team.

Peter shrugged, and passed him a slice of pie. The sounds of a happy, joyful family movie night came through the wall between the living room and the kitchen. "Well, we quite like living, and you have the power to ensure we continue living. And young Matthew quite likes you. You wouldn't want to disappoint him, would you?"

He smirked at Stiles' glare, utterly shameless.)


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles was an early riser, through stress and lack of time for anything rather than nature, and it hadn't changed when he arrived in the future. As he got out of bed, he had the thought that the Hales might think he was sneaking around at six in the morning, but decided that they deserved it. Stiles was here unwillingly enough, even if they hadn't kidnapped him in the traditional sense.

The room the Hales had provided him was a guest bedroom, done up in various shades of brown and blue, and had everything Stiles could want. Slippers next to the bed, which he slipped on to avoid the cool wooden floors. A new toothbrush, still packaged, on the sink in the attached bathroom. Nearby, a choice of shampoos was sat, along with a comb, soap, toothpaste, razors, and various other amenities. Stiles had to wonder if the Hales were just always this hospitable, or if everything was bought with a strange time travelling emissary in mind.

After ten minutes, Stiles left his bedroom and walked quietly through the second floor hallway, hoping he didn't wake up anyone who was sleeping. His room was across from Derek's, next to Laura's, and near Matt's, along with a fourth room that Talia said had been Peter's once upon a time, but now was a study. Upstairs, on the third floor, were Talia and Anton's room, Cora's room, Cleo's room, and another guest bedroom.

The large staircase, from which Derek had intimidated him and Scott at one point when it was just a burned out husk, led him downstairs. It was unnerving, to see a house he'd only seemed as s burned wreck undamaged. He passed the entrance and the den on his way to the kitchen, where Anton was already sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee.

"Good morning," Anton said, standing up. "Coffee?"

"Please," Stiles replied, taking a seat at the table.

Anton soon brought Stiles' cup, along with a bottle of creamer, which Stiles poured a fair serving in to his cup. "No one else is up yet?" Stiles asked.

"Derek's school begins at eight, and gets up at seven. Cora, Cleo, and Matt, also get up around then, but only need to leave around half past eight. And my wife is very fond of sleeping in," Anton explained. "I'm the only early riser in the pack."

"You don't accidentally wake everyone up? I know werewolf hearing is very good."

"All the walls are at least partially soundproofed, and for the most part, the others are heavy sleepers."

"Hmm," Stiles said.

"Is your pack the same?"

"Not really. One of them, he's, well, he'll wake up at any sound. Sleeps with noise-blocking headphones. A couple of the others, they aren't as bad. One would sleep through the zombie apocalypse, though," Stiles said with a smile, thinking of his best friend.

"And Peter?"

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "I don't know. He wasn't really one to join us. I think pack sleepovers were too juvenile for him."

In the minutes that followed, Stiles took a newspaper Anton had finished, and began flipping through. Although he wasn't the best with current events, it was strange to know that he already knew a few of the major stories, and how they would end.

"So, I suppose Peter escapes this calamity?" Anton asked, taking a sip of coffee.

Stiles gave a half-hearted glare, unable to really feel angry at the prodding. Despite the situation, it was a good feeling, knowing that he had a month's vacation from his crazy life in the future Beacon Hills. This Beacon Hills wasn't a breeding ground for madness and evil, and people he loved weren't in danger of dying on him. It was only October, and the Hale fire would be in the summer. He was safe. This family was safe.

He thought about telling Anton he couldn't say, but that wasn't quite true. He'd already given away his familiarity with Peter, and he knew he was going to going to do the same with Derek. It was inevitable. Stiles was a good enough actor, but not when he'd have to keep up a pretense every day for a month.

"He and Derek—" and Laura, but Stiles had never met Laura, not even now, and he could keep up an act around her easily enough. Because it would be cruel, to give false hope and then say she was killed by her uncle. "—just survived a little longer. But no one escaped it, not really." Not enough to build functional lives outside of anger and grief and guilt.

"I'd hoped..." Anton began, then trailed off, as the Hale youth began trickling down the stairs. First came Derek, his hair combed and not even a bit out of place, looking terribly young. Then the twins rushed down, attacking the cereal with vigor. And finally Matt came to the table, yawning the entire time.

"Is there anything you want to do while you're here?" Anton said instead.

Stiles shrugged. "Not especially. I can't really see my family—" his mother was already dead, and even seeing his father from afar sounded painful "—and my friends aren't—really here right now. It would be weird, anyway."

He spoke carefully around the younger Hales, who didn't know Stiles was from the past. As far as they knew, Stiles was the son an old friend, and he was visiting for a time while on the journey of discovery needed to become an emissary. It was the perfect disguise, since very few outside of the emissary circle actually knew what it took to go from being a spark to becoming an emissary. Talia hadn't wanted to trouble them, and Stiles was glad despite the fact that he would've hated it had he been in the younger Hales' place.

"You could always do magic," Cora said hopefully.

"You wouldn't really like that," Stiles replied. "Most of my magic is done with mountain ash."

Cora wrinkled her nose.

"We could stand far away," Cleo tried.

"If that's the case, and your parents don't mind, you'll have one great show," Stiles said, glancing at Anton, who nodded. "But for now... maybe I'll catch up on, uh, whatever TV shows are on now."

"Don't say that to my wife, or you'll be running errands for the foreseeable future," Anton said.

"Actually, that sounds pretty nice."

"You're so weird," Derek said.

"In that case, you could always drive Derek to school," Anton suggested.

"Are you sure you trust me with the keys?" Stiles asked. _And your son?_ he thought.

"We're already trusting you with a lot," Anton said, and placed them in Stiles' hand, closing Stiles' fingers around the metal. "What's a couple of pieces of metal? And please, feel free to use the car to your discretion. I know if I were you, I'd have things I'd do if it were me in your shoes."

Stiles swallowed, and placed the keys in his pocket. "I'll be back around six."

"You'll be right in time for dinner," Anton said with a smile.

.

After dropping off Derek, Stiles kept driving, steering the car north until he ran out one tank of gas, then two. He'd only driven this route a couple of times, and hoped he was going the right way. But this time, he wasn't exhausted and terrified, and it wasn't dark all around him. He was able to move from the highway to a regular street, then from the street to a small, out of the way road into a wooded area. Throwing a protection ward onto the car and locking it, Stiles stepped out and crossed the rest of the way on foot.

It was a half hour before Stiles began to feel magical energy prickle at his skin, and he stopped at the edge of the wards, ignoring their pinch.

"Alona Craig?" he called. When no one answered, he added, "I know you can hear me! I don't mean you any harm... I'm not from the emissary circle... Dude, I'm going to break down your wards if you don't let me in!" And he could do it, too; he'd spent enough time in this cabin in the future, trying to get his powers under control so that he could get back to Beacon Hills.

The wards relaxed just enough for Stiles to step through them, and Stiles did, continuing a half mile into the forest until he finally reached the home of rogue emissary Alona Craig. Because he had a list of questions, and he was more than sure that neither Deaton nor Talia would give him straight answers—not when those answers wouldn't benefit their survival. As for Alona, while she wasn't the most trustworthy woman Stiles knew, he was fairly sure she didn't have a stake in the Hales' survival.

Alona was sitting in a rocking chair outside the cabin, a tea tray already set out for them.

"I've missed these," Stiles said, taking one of Alona's cookies as he sat down.

"There was no need to get violent," she said, glaring softly at him. "The kettle hadn't finished boiling."

"Were you expecting me?" Stiles asked. It was always a gamble, when it came to Alona.

"Yes and no. I saw you coming, and not coming. It was very strange."

"I bet," Stiles replied, and began to explain his time travelling dilemma, to the emissary who looked too far into the time stream and was never quite the same afterwards.

"Why aren't you talking to Deaton about this?" she asked

"Deaton's allied with the Hales, and he's never really as unbiased as he wants to appear. Not to mention, I've only gotten a straight answer from him once or twice."

"Have you ever received a straight answer from me? Actually, that might be a yes. Or no. The future is a lot fuzzier now than it was two days ago."

"Blame it on the Hales," Stiles muttered. "What is my future like right now, at this very moment?"

"The same as you left it, but from the moment you leave, it continues on without you. And when you return, it's as though you never left, and a different future forms, replacing the future without you. If you don't stay in this past, everything you do here is simply forgotten. Time is... very changeable, if you know how to change it."

"And if you're willing to go mad," Stiles muttered. "Can any emissary can change it?" That could be another thing he'd have to watch out for, when he returned to his future.

"Any emissary with the permission of fate." Her brow furrowed. "Deaton's ritual shouldn't have worked. It isn't like fate, to care about one family. Perhaps there's a ripple effect, and the lives of this family will impact more than we can understand right now. I can't see any other streams, after all. Just this one."

"If fate's decided to agree, does that mean I'm supposed to change the future? Am I not supposed to return?"

"You're supposed to decide. Perhaps it isn't the Hales who are supposed to change, but you. Perhaps this decision is simply to prepare you for another one in your life. Or perhaps not."

"Great," Stiles said, feeling as confused as he'd felt before.

.

The Hale pack wouldn't, couldn't, ever replace the McCall pack in Stiles' heart. But over the next few days, he got to know them as more than figures in Derek's curt stories.

Matt was the youngest of the pack, and eager to help him with his "magic journey". He was just as eager for magic shows and interesting facts. He was also the only member of the pack who saw Stiles' mountain ash as something interesting and annoying, rather than frightening.

Cora was a dancer and a reader and loved the color pink. Her twin sister Cleo preferred soccer, but they both adored reading a battered old copy of Anderson's fairy tales. Laura called from school every couple of days, regaling the pack with her adventures as a college freshman.

And Derek, well. Derek's entire existence caused a pain in Stiles' chest. Derek, who was moody like only a teenager could be, not permanently changed by grief. But he was more than a heartache: he was a basketball player, a straight A student, a guy with a comic book collection in his bedroom.

It wasn't too long before Stiles found his own rhythm in the household. During the day, he would relax and run errands, then after a family dinner he and the Hale children could be found in the den. Stiles would read, Matt would play, Cora would read, and Derek would do homework.

Or rather, avoid it.

"We have to write an essay on a topic of our choice," Derek said, disgruntled. "Are you any good at essays?"

"I'm great at essays," Stiles said. "I think I even had the same assignment in high school. I wrote my essay about the history of male circumcision."

For a long moment, Derek had no words, and just stared at Stiles blankly. "Why?"

"Why not? It's a topic everyone needs to be aware about! I mean, come on, especially you and me since we're dudes. Don't you ever think about foreskin?"

"No. I really, really don't."

"Did you know that—"

"I'm not going to write about circumcision."

"You say that now, but—"

"Ever. People would laugh at me. Kate— uh—"

"Kate?" Stiles asked, and watched Derek blush. "Ah, _Kate_."

It was almost cute, to see the way Derek couldn't keep a straight face or at least a not red one. It was less cute, the hopeful, happy expression on Derek's face whenever he thought her name, because Stiles' last memory of her was with her throat ripped out, and Peter's claws still bloody.

And speak of the devil, "Why, Derek, you haven't mentioned Kate to me," came Peter's voice. Stiles looked up to see the man enter the room.

Stiles hadn't seen him since that first night. It wasn't quite by accident, because the Hale pack was too perceptive by far, and Peter was even more so. Stiles couldn't help being around Derek—they lived in the same house, after all—but he could do something when it came to Peter. Peter didn't live with the rest of the Hales, having an apartment closer to the center of Beacon Hills. It meant that Stiles didn't have to see him any more than he wanted to. (It didn't mean Stiles didn't hear about him, because if anything, Peter was adored by the two younger Hales. Stiles heard about his gray wolf form, about his ability to win every gave he played, about his awesome card tricks. Derek even haltingly said that Peter wasn't too bad, when he wasn't being weird.) But after skipping two dinners, both when Peter would've been attending, Stiles' luck ran out.

"Piss off," Derek muttered, "I'm not telling _you_ about my love life."

"You have a love life?" Peter asked.

Before Derek could do more than glare, Talia poked her head through the doorway. "Oi, children, come help with dinner! And Derek, don't think I didn't hear you. As for you, Peter, really?"

"I didn't mean to stoop to his level," Peter said, and got a sock in the face as Derek and the rest of the kids left the room. "Rude."

"I'll just—" Stiles began.

"No, stay," Peter said, sliding onto the chair next to the one Stiles was sitting in. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

 _I've been meaning to tell you something_ echoed in Stiles' head, and for a moment he saw both the Peter in his head, older and wiser and murderous and pack, and the younger Peter in front of him align as one. And then he blinked, and the double image was gone, and only the younger Peter remained, a curious look in his eyes.

"Yes?" Stiles asked.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't," Stiles replied.

"You also don't seem to care that werewolves are walking lie detectors... Look, I'm hardly the big bad wolf," Peter said. "In fact, my sister is known to be more vicious than me."

Stiles peered at him. "Aren't you supposed to be convincing me to stay instead of scaring me off?"

"She's only vicious in the protection of our pack—and you're very much a part of it now, if unofficially. And... You're not scared. Not even a little."

Stiles shrugged. He couldn't be scared; this Peter was saner than Stiles had ever seen him, completely and utterly healthy. He should've been scared, because this Peter has his mind, his brilliant and calculating mind, but Stiles didn't care. He'd always been too fond of danger. And there was something incredibly alluring about this younger version of Peter. Maybe that was the problem.

Stiles had already liked Peter's future self (for a version of like, because Peter had been so damn aggravating, and Stiles had thought he mostly hated him, but when Peter's funeral came Stiles had found himself in tears), when the man had been a walking serial killer. He didn't like his chances of disliking the man's past self.

"Besides. You're giving me a bad reputation, avoiding me and all. The younger ones are sure this means I do something terrible in the future."

Stiles ignored the way Peter trailed off, the way he definitely was interested in an answer, and said, "Alright. I'll try to not avoid you, despite the fact that I don't see you regularly anyway."

"I take my lunch breaks at one o'clock," Peter replied.

And Stiles had no idea why Peter cared, no idea why he'd go out of his way to talk to him when the rest of the pack was already ingraining themselves into Stiles' heart. He ignored the fact that, whatever Peter's reasons were, Stiles would be happy to see him.

.

Two hours later, they were in the same room, and Matt was saying, "Can you tell me a story?"

Cora and Cleo automatically looked up, and Cora said, "You're too old for stories."

Matt just growled at them, and looked toward Peter, who was lurking in a corner. Peter smirked and sat down on the floor next to Matt, resting his feet against Stiles' chair. "I'd like a story, too."

"About dragons!" Matt exclaimed.

"And werewolves," Peter added.

Cleo harrumphed. "And magic. If it's going to be a story, there has to be magic."

Stiles turned toward Derek, and noticed that Talia and Anton had joined the room, too. He wondered how soundproof the walls really were, and had a feeling the doors the Hales rarely closed played a big part in it. "Any requests?" he asked them.

"I'm partial to heroic escapades, myself," Talia said, coming closer to sit on a sofa. She gestured toward her husband, and he sat down next to her, their bodies curling together.

"And maybe a little classic true love," Anton said.

"With swords," Derek added.

"Well. Then you'll like the story I have in mind," Stiles said, the words already forming in his mind. He was a good enough liar, but he was a better storyteller, spinning truth and lies and history and hope until the world was a simple place. He shifted and pulled off his sweatshirt, glancing at Talia for permission before letting his tattoo unglue itself from his skin. For a second, the two bands hovered in the air, then whirled together in a tornado of mountain ash. It settled into the shape of a dragon that curled around Stiles, its long tail wrapping around his waist as its claws dug into his skin as it stared out at its audience.

Matt eeped, and the dragon blew a heart-shaped puff of smoke at him until the boy was smiling again.

"Once upon a time, there was a dragon who lived under a nemeton. It was an ancient creature, from times of old, cranky and with a taste for crunchy knights and sweet maidens. Eventually, the village of Beacon Hills had enough of it, and called upon the help of the Magic Knights. Who they got was a knight in training by the name of Vott, and his trusty magical friend Giles. Vott's swordwork could still use a lot of work, and Giles blew things up more often than not, but they were both filled with determination to help the villagers. They arrived at Beacon Hills on their horses on a cold, rainy night, and stopped at a tavern, where they met travelling mercenaries Ally and Lana..."

The tale continued on, and Stiles spoke of swashbuckling heroes and snarky sidekicks and women with various sharp objects and sharper tongues, and illustrated the story with ash. Talia and Anton only paid attention with one ear, spending the rest of the time talking so softly that Stiles only knew they were talking because he saw their lips moving, and Peter picked up a book at one point, but the younger Hales stared at him, transfixed. It took a lot of arguing for him to get out of telling another story once his first ended. But eventually, the room emptied as the parents left to clean up, the kids left for their rooms, and Derek vanished to talk with friends online. (Stiles had a feeling Derek had a Myspace, and was trying not to let his curiosity reign).

"Was any of that story true?" Peter asked.

Stiles shrugged. "Some of it. It was... a lot nicer than reality. I prefer its ending to the real one." He spun the mountain ash around his finger, encouraging it to fade into his skin. The stripes settled around his wrist, until they reluctantly dragged upwards onto his upper arm. "Pain in the ass," he muttered, rubbing them gently.

"I suppose it's obvious that your tattoo isn't the same as one from a corner shop," Peter said.

Stiles indulged the unasked question, and said, "It was a part of my emissary training. And afterwards, well. I liked it. It has a bit of a life of its own, though, and doesn't always like to listen to me. It's attached to my magic, not my mind, and my magic is... more unstable, than most's."

Peter wouldn't know, but the whole point of the tattoo had been for Stiles to learn to control his spark. The McCall pack had killed a dragon, that much was true, but when their victorious party had returned, Stiles' spark had been out of control, burning and blowing up almost anything Stiles got his hands on. It had gotten better, eventually, but not without a hell of a lot of hard work. And Alona throwing a couple of buckets of water onto him when he looked like he was going to ignite.

Stiles' train of thought was broken by a loud voice from downstairs.

"You can't do that to me!" Derek yelled from the kitchen, and Talia and Anton's somewhat quieter voices followed. What followed was a loud argument about whether Derek was mature enough to have a car, and Stiles closed the door with a wave of his hand and a brush of wind. (Technically, you weren't really supposed to use emissary powers for small tasks and magic shows, but Stiles had never been one for rules. And, well, there was an admiring look in Peter's eyes that Stiles had always liked, admiration and a challenge mixed in, as if to say, _show me more._ Stiles couldn't resist the call.)

Once the door closed, the sounds stopped completely.

"You ruin my fun," Peter said.

"You'll get over it," Stiles replied. Peter had better things to do than spy on his nephew. Probably. Stiles had never actually asked what he did when he wasn't around the house. But apparently, Stiles had nothing better because he couldn't get over how young Derek was. How completely not self-sufficient, how petulant, how adorable. "Agh, Derek is such a teenager."

"And you're not?"

"I'm twenty-one, thanks," Stiles relied. And then... "Oh god, I'm older than Derek," he moaned, throwing his head onto a pillow. "Derek. I can't believe this is my life."

"Was the opposite a problem later in your life?" Peter asked, his voice innocent, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. All the Hales thought they were so smooth, asking him about the future, really.

Stiles glared at him, but answered, "Only in my fantasies. He was hung up on—someone else." On his family, obviously, but also on Kate, who'd told him she loved him, and on Jennifer, who'd actually loved him but betrayed him anyway. "I don't even know if he was into guys. Never picked up on my innuendo."

"He may have been attempting to be polite," Peter replied.

"You never did, either," Stiles said, and grinned as Peter choked.

"What— I would've been—"

"Almost forty, and still a total creeper," Stiles said. Although, frankly, by the time the worst of Stiles' past was over, Stiles had hit on every single one of his packmates. It was a surprise everything hadn't devolved into one big orgy, knowing what a mix of horny teenagers, a repressed twenty-something, and a pervy old man they were.

But at the same time, it wasn't all that surprising. Lydia and Jackson were something else, something Stiles could never understand, but mostly stable after a couple bumps. Scott and Allison were Romeo and Juliet without the dying bit (not counting the times one of them had died and come back, because that was what their lives had been, one dead for a time and the other standing strong and getting the other back and getting revenge). Danny and Isaac were terribly, awfully sweet and had been on and off for most of high school. Erica and Boyd had decided to not to do vaguely incestuous intra-pack dating, and it had worked out for them. Derek—Derek found more happiness in having a stable pack, what was left of it, than in romance. Peter, Stiles was pretty sure, hadn't trusted anyone to not burn him again, and stuck with one night stands. And Stiles, well, he hadn't met the great love of his life, but he hadn't been celibate.

"Were we...?"

"Nah," Stiles replied. "I had more class than that. Not much more, though." Because Peter was sex on legs, even in the future. Maybe more so in the future, because this Peter didn't wear nearly as many v-necks.

"I'm terribly insulted."

"You should be," Stiles murmured. _You could be anything, now that you're not dead,_ he wanted to say, but bit his lip. Peter was stuck in a terrible limbo, a Schrodinger's wolf, a man who was alive now but not in the future. He breathed and walked and talked now, but not in any way that counted, not in any way that was real, because Stiles was going to go back to the future soon and Peter would be six feet under and only a memory of a man.

The same went for all the other Hales, because the Hale line was dead in Stiles' future.

"You're telling me a surprising amount of information," Peter said off-handedly. "You don't think it's dangerous?"

Stiles shrugged. "Fate has a way of dealing with things. I'm not worried."

But that wasn't true: he was, but not out of a lack of trust in faith. He'd learned to trust it like he couldn't trust much else, trust faith and magic—and Scott—because otherwise it was a dreary existence he'd lead. But he hated this, knowing it was his decision and his alone. A decision between two futures, one better for Stiles, one better for the Hales. Stiles was selfish; didn't fate know that? Didn't it realize he would never be able to abandon his future? It wasn't perfect, not nearly, but he'd sweated and bled and cried to make the future what it was. It was his, and he couldn't leave it.

"Liar," Peter said, and dragged him downstairs for another helping of apple pie.


	3. Chapter 3

"It figures," Stiles said, as he saw the words Hale Legal Consulting on the door of Peter's office. "You're exactly the kind of person who'd be a lawyer."

He opened the door, not bothering to knock, and stepped inside Peter's office. In the future, he'd never known what Peter's chosen profession had been. He'd always lived off the Hale family savings and life insurance, just like Derek. Although, in their defense, they hadn't had the time to establish themselves. Derek had barely finished college when Laura died, and Peter had spent eight years in a coma.

And now, Peter was sitting behind a mahogany desk, legs crossed at their ankles resting on top of the desk, looking for all intents and purposes in control of his future. The office was neat and tidy, only a small pile of paperwork on one side of the desk. The only points of disorder were the dozens of books on bookshelves that lined the walls, all either leather-bound or incredibly worn. Stiles doubted they were about the supernatural, but he glanced over the titles anyway, and was disappointed to find them boring old law books.

"Highly intelligent, superbly motivated, and incredibly attractive? Why of course," Peter replied.

Stiles sat down on the chair in front of Peter's desk, feeling mildly like he was in the principal's office. To abate the feeling, he mirrored Peter and rested his legs on Peter's desk. "You mean, well suited for your lying self, I'm sure."

"And what exactly are you planning to go into?"

"Law enforcement," Stiles replied.

Peter made a face. "Lovely. So much... running after people. And terrible pay. You're an emissary, for fuck's sake. There are few enough of them that you could spend your life working one day a week, solving various beings' magical squabbles."

"That would be hell for me. I like being active. And... I like knowing I can protect people, whether it's magically or behind a uniform."

"Just like your father?"

Stiles stilled, shocked, because he'd never mentioned his father to the Hales, as far as he remembered.

"You can't believe we haven't researched you, Genim Stilinski?"

"I suppose not," Stiles replied. The way Peter was talking, it wasn't a threat. But it could've been, so very easily. Peter was good with threats, like a cat toying with a mouse, easily bringing someone's blood pressure up with his words. But Stiles was pretty sure Talia wouldn't have approved of that tactic. "Call me Stiles. I've gone by it for years."

"Of course," Peter said, all obliging once again.

Stiles had to wonder, even if Talia had forbidden it, why Peter hadn't threatened him anyway. Why he hadn't dangled Stiles' father's safety in exchange for information. It didn't make any sense; but then, Stiles had tried to make sense of Peter for years, and hadn't gotten all that far.

So he just decided to ask. "That's it? No barely veiled threats?"

"Not on you," Peter replied.

"Because I'm an emissary."

"Not that," Peter said, his voice almost a growl. "I hope you haven't missed that we actually like you. I'm—my pack—isn't in the habit of threatening people whose presence we enjoy."

"And swaying me to your side isn't a part of it?" Stiles asked.

"It is. But... if we didn't like and trust you so much, you'd hardly still be living in our house. You wouldn't be left alone with my nephews and nieces. You wouldn't be welcome in our pack."

Peter's words didn't feel like a lie, but he also had a way of sweetening the truth. Stiles didn't know what he'd rather have: pretty manipulation or honest appreciation. But that felt like a lie to himself; Stiles wanted to be liked by this pack he'd come to love. He wanted more than seduction, more than manipulation.

In the end, there was nothing Stiles could say, but, "Thank you." And when Peter looked uncomfortable at their sudden heart to heart, he added, "This might be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

"I can say even sweeter things to you," Peter replied, smirking.

"Nope. Let's not."

Looking around, he said the first thing that came to mind as his eyes fell onto a familiarly designed book. "Is that a yearbook?" Stiles asked, leaning his chair back so that he could reach the closest bookshelf and rest his hand on the spine of the dark red cover of the book.

Peter sighed. "Yes, it is. Knock yourself out."

Stiles pulled it out and made himself comfortable, giving only a small glance at the cover—Beacon Hills High School, Class of 1993—before opening it. He hadn't known Peter had gone to Beacon Hills; he hadn't really ever thought about how long the Hale family had lived on this land.

As interesting as it was to see his old teachers without their wrinkles, and even see some new faces, Stiles got bored pretty quickly. His mind traveled, as it usually did these days, to his time traveling dilemma.

"There's no record of me in the school system," Stiles said, flipping through Peter's old yearbook. Because even if the Hales wanted him to stay, it wasn't like he had a presence in the past.

"Records can always be forged," Peter said, not even looking up from the paperwork he'd begun to review.

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"Whatever you were doing before," Peter replied once again. "Just a decade in the past."

That was easy to say, and easy to do if Stiles didn't think of particular people. He could go to the same college, maybe even have a couple of the same professors. He could go to the same police academy and become a cop in Beacon Hills, just like he'd planned to do in the future.

But he wouldn't have pictures of the time Allison and Scott got married hanging from his walls. (Her extended family had given her an ultimatum: break up with the werewolf or cease using the Argent name. She'd given them the finger, gathered the pack into three cars, and gave a werewolf the Argent name instead. They'd become Allison and Scott McCall-Argent in Vegas, with Elvis as their minister, Stiles as their best man, and the rest of the pack sitting on multicolored pews.) He wouldn't spent his lunch breaks with Erica, or get dragged shopping by Jackson and Lydia. He wouldn't spend hours making fun of and being made fun of with Isaac. He'd never have shooting competitions with Boyd or be terribly outranked by Allison.

(Usually, Stiles tried not to let himself think of what he would have if he stayed. Seeing his father and preventing his death. The Hales living. No guilt that would plague him for the rest of his days.)

The past had already happened. It was a done deal. It didn't need to be changed.

"I don't have any documents," Stiles finally said.

"You don't honestly think that's a problem for the emissary circle?"

Stiles thought of the rule-making body of emissaries. He'd only met them once, to let them know he'd been able to become an emissary without their aid. They had thought him too wild, too loyal to one pack. And Stiles had thought they were a bunch of stiff old men with way too much time on their hands, but he couldn't disagree that they were powerful. They could make him appear seamlessly into the order of things, like there had always been a Stiles Stilinski born in the eighties. Stiles would finally be rid of his terrible first name, too.

"Are you looking for reasons to go back?"

"No, I have them. I'm just... trying to find a decision I can live with."

"Your pack will still live. Ours won't. I would think it's an easy decision."

"It'll just never exist, rather than living."

"Is that really worse?"

"I don't know," Stiles replied.

He'd never taken a vow to be fair. It was never something required of emissaries. Once your spark erupted from a small flame to a burn, you either controlled it and became more than any human had a right to be, or you died. Stiles had taken the first route, and become the pack's personal Harry Potter, wand not included. He'd never met with the gods, or seen fate, or signed a contract. There were years and traditions for people who wanted to become emissaries, who carefully urged their sparks and molded themselves just right. Stiles' spark just made itself known by almost burning the town down.

The elders at the circle had called him uncontrollable, and were even less happy to know how entwined his soul and magic were to his pack, his alpha.

Of all the emissaries Deaton's spell could've brought back, Stiles was its worst choice. Because someone else might've enjoyed the favor of a powerful pack, and been content with having them in their debt. Someone else might've gleefully begun investing and building a profit off their future knowledge as soon as their feet hit the ground, with only a small, "Oh, by the way, some bitch named Kate Argent is gonna kill you all after some hanky panky with your son Derek."

When Stiles looked up from the book, Peter was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

It made Stiles want to apologize, but an apology wouldn't ever be enough, neither from Stiles for letting the Hales die, nor from the Hales for (maybe) convincing him to abandon his pack. Instead he said, "Why do you keep a yearbook in your office?"

"To bond with the idiots that come through my door, of course," Peter replied.

"Not to look upon your better days?"

"Please. Have you seen my hair in there?"

Quickly, Stiles began flipping through the book, wanting to find Peter's photo before the man could grab the book out of his arms. On page forty-two, he finally saw the name Peter Hale, and snorted as he brought his eyes to the picture accompanying the name. He wouldn't have even recognized the young man as the same as the man in the room with him right now. The man who, with a disgruntled sigh, left his desk and sat down on the arm of Stiles' chair.

"Everyone makes bad decisions," Peter said, crossing his arms.

"You're bald," Stiles replied, his voice filled with unholy glee.

Peter Hale, age eighteen, was glaring at the camera, his arms folded and his lips pursed into something that very decidedly wasn't a smile. And for some reason, he had no hair.

"I was a swimmer," Peter explained as Stiles shook with laughter. "It was something we did. It doesn't look that bad."

Through peals of laughter, Stiles said, "Of course not," and laughed further at Peter's pout.

"I'm rescinding your invitation to visit my office."

"Too late."

.

Hours later, Stiles was parked in the Beacon Hills High School parking lot, leaning on his car and waiting for Derek's basketball practice to finish. Inside his car were a couple grocery bags, various dry cleaning receipts, and an sticks of an obscure tree meant to keep away house fairies. Anthony and Talia were really enjoying having another adult around, Stiles thought with a sigh. He was much easier to sucker into doing things than Peter, who was conveniently working on an urgent case whenever Talia needed an extra pair of hands.

Beacon Hills didn't look very different, Stiles thought as he stood there, looking around at the school and the area around it. He'd expected it to, because with such different people, wouldn't it make sense for the town to be completely changed? But it was almost as he'd left it, minus and plus some buildings here and there. The streets hadn't changed, their houses having been build some years ago. The high school looked exactly the same, even if the fashions of the teenagers lurking outside it looked old even to Stiles' mostly ignorant eye.

Stiles must have arrived early, as Derek wasn't one of the students outside. Either that, or Derek's basketball practice had run late. His coach wasn't as enthusiastic (or rather, batshit crazy) as Finstock, but with the strange trend of basketball actually being a popular sport and lacrosse mostly ignored, basketball players were pressured to practice a lot.

Back in the future, Stiles hadn't thought Derek even knew what sports were. He never seemed to care about lacrosse, and had the habit of arranging pack training during Stiles and Scott's practices. Stiles hadn't even known if Derek had done any sports or clubs in high school. When they'd known each other, it had always seemed like Derek's past began and ended with the Hale house fire. Derek hadn't been keen on talking about anything before Laura's death, and Stiles had never pushed, not wanting to have another argument.

He wondered now if he should've, if it would've helped. Would Derek have felt better if he'd talked about it?

Or was it just Stiles' propensity for taking on the burdens of his pack talking? He didn't know. He would never know, since Derek wouldn't be there is Stiles returned to the present. And he wouldn't know now, in the past.

He wasn't looking forward to it. He wasn't looking forward to anything about going back to the future and bearing this guilt for the rest of his life, because he'd sentenced a whole family to die just because he wanted to return to his own.

If he stayed in the past, he'd be alone, never fitting in anywhere, out of place in time. Even if he revealed himself to his father, he'd always still have another son, one he'd actually raised instead of a stranger a decade older. He'd never be able to compete with the younger version of himself. He'd never have Scott as a friend again, or Isaac, Allison, Boyd, and Erica. And even if his friendliness with Derek grew into actual friendship, it would never be the one of the future.

Stiles had a feeling this Derek actually looked up to him, instead of the other way around.

(Although, Derek had always been too broken, violent, and angry for Stiles to look up to in the future. And wasn't it a twist, that someone actually considered Stiles a good role model.)

And Peter... With the exception of everyone being alive again, Peter was the best part of the past. He was witty and manipulative and confident without the constant dark shadow hovering over him. He was so much more than his future self had been, so much brighter, so much less out to hurt anyone he pleased. He was happy with his place in life and the pack.

It made Stiles' heart ache. He wanted to keep this version of Peter. He wanted to keep all the Hales, from Talia to Cora to Matt, and bring them with him to the future.

But that was impossible, and Stiles couldn't perform miracles. He was just a man. Just a too-young emissary who acted like he knew what he was doing more often than he actually did. Just Stiles.

He'd been unaware of the people around him, but was jarred to awareness when someone said, "Are you alright?"

Stiles looked up, and almost laughed. It figured. "I'm fine. Just got lost in my thoughts."

"I'm glad," Kate replied, smiling. She looked... drab, wearing washed out jeans and a white blouse. She looked exactly like the teacher she was pretending to be, and it didn't mesh with how she'd looked in the future. "I was a little worried. Are you waiting for someone?"

"Yeah— Derek Hale? You might know him."

"He's in one of my classes," Kate replied.

"You're a student?" Stiles asked.

She shook her head. "No. I look young, don't I? It's a failing. I'm a long-term substitute teacher for Mrs. Willowby, the junior English teacher. She took an early maternity leave, and I was there to fill in."

 _I bet,_ Stiles thought. He didn't even have to wonder what had happened to Mrs. Willowby; in the future, he'd called her for a chat when he'd still been working on solving the case of the Hale murders.

"Are you a relative of Derek's?"

"No. Why?"

"I try to keep up with my students, and I've noticed you drop him off a couple times. For all I know, you could be a boyfriend?"

 _Oh. Oh, fuck._ Was Kate trying to pump him for information about Derek, so that she could seduce him? Stiles almost groaned.

"No, we're not dating. I'm like, half a decade older than him. And he's underage. Very underage."

"Of course," Kate said. "It would be very improper."

"And illegal," Stiles added dryly.

But it looked like Kate didn't quite hear his words, because at that moment was when Derek exited the building, finally finished with basketball practice. Kate's eyes lingered on the way Derek's sweat-soaked shirt clung to his body, while Stiles tried to pretend it wasn't happening. Derek scanned the parking lot, and Stiles gave him a wave. He looked a little worried as he saw them standing together, and hastened his speed to meet Stiles and Kate at the car.

"Er, is something wrong, Ms. Silver?"

"Of course not. I was just chatting with your..."

"Friend of the family," Derek filled in. "He's staying with us for the month."

"I'll be seeing more of you, then," Kate said with a smile, and added, "But for now, I've got a pile of essays to grade."

"Bye, Ms. Silver," Derek said, and watched as she left. "That was weird."

"Yeah," Stiles said, sighing. "People are generally pretty weird."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

Derek just laughed and got in the car.

.

Sadly, Kate wasn't the only person from Stiles' future who appeared from time to time. He saw Adrian Harris around the school, being a terrible teacher even a decade before Stiles' time and becoming friendly with his fellow teacher Kate. He saw the other four people involved in the fire, recognizing their faces easily after poring over their files during his sophomore year of high school. He saw old teachers, classmates, and acquaintances, some of which he knew would die in the future, others who he would've loved to just say something to.

And one day, while Stiles was relaxing on a playground park bench, making sure Cora, Cleo, and Matt didn't get into too much trouble, he saw the one person he'd hoped he wouldn't have be around. Stiles had seen his father around town, of course; it was a given, with his father being a cop and all. He wasn't the sheriff quite yet—he'd get promoted in two years—and so he spent a lot more time outside the police station, taking shifts and driving around.

He glanced away, but Peter, who Talia had also pushed into babysitting, had already noticed Stiles' inattention.

"You're not a very good babysitter, being so absentminded," Peter said, glancing between Stiles' father and Stiles.

Stiles was just glad that John was too far away, and wouldn't hear them speaking. He'd come with Stiles' younger self, Melissa, and Scott, and while the kids had run off, John and Melissa stood on the other side of the playground and talked.

"I'll have to tell Talia that you're a much better one than me," Stiles replied absentmindedly, focused on looking away from his dad and surrogate mom even as he knew he couldn't force his eyes away.

Peter scoffed. "I'm already forced to babysit too much. She calls it making up for my personal lack of children."

Stiles looked away just in time to see a disgruntled expression cross Peter's face. "You don't like kids?"

Peter shrugged. "I've never been especially fond of small, crying things. Talia does tell me it's different, when they're your own," he added dubiously.

 _Well, if you were to treat your kids the way you treated the kid you bit,_ Stiles thought, but it wasn't the same. Not only because Peter wouldn't be just awoken from an eight year coma and driven half insane in the meantime, but because later, Peter had been nothing if not fierce in the protection of his pack. There had been a layer of manipulation atop everything he did, but Stiles thought that maybe, he'd also liked them all. He'd certainly been hurt enough times that staying with them couldn't have been a completely self-serving action.

"You've never found anyone to try out the whole serious relationship thing with?" Stiles asked. As he finished speaking, he suddenly felt too aware of his words, too self-conscious. He hoped that wasn't a blush he felt running across his face.

"You tell me, Stiles," Peter replied, his eyes boring into Stiles', his lips curled up knowingly.

"Yeah, your right hand."

The snarky reply was a knee-jerk response, but Peter's smile just got wider, and Stiles felt wrong-footed as he thought things he had no business thinking. (That he wouldn't mind a future of this: talking to Peter, laughing with Matt, spending lazy mornings with Anton, learning from Talia. He very much wouldn't mind a future with Peter in it.)

Before they could say anything else, a yell came from the playground.

"You're ugly!" came a familiar voice, and Stiles groaned as he saw it came from Cora.

"Yeah, well you're stupid. I bet you do stupid things!" came from a shorter boy, his arms akimbo and directing a fierce glare at the twins. Next to him stood another boy, one Stiles was even more familiar with.

Stiles sighed and started walking toward them. Of all the many kids on the playground, his charges had to pick a fight with his younger self. "Okay, break it up," he called, noticing John and Melissa mirroring him.

"Stiles, what have I told you about playing nice?" John asked.

Stiles' younger self made a face and said, "She deserved it. They stole our swing!"

"They tried to kick us out," Cora said, and Cleo chimed in with, "They left, so it was ours now."

Melissa sighed. "Alright, this is obviously an opportunity to show us what great, grown-up boys you are. When the girls here are finished, you can go back, but until then, off with you both."

"But _Dad_ ," Stiles' younger self groaned. Scott in turn was pouting up at his mom.

When they got no help from either front, the boys slouched off in the direction of the slides, where a group of boys including Matt was playing.

"Kids, huh?" Stiles said, for lack of anything else. Because his father was looking at him now, instead of being focused on his son, staring at him with a complicated expression. Stiles hoped that his own emotions weren't showing as clearly, that there wasn't something akin to heartbreak on his face.

"I usually have a great memory for faces, but... you seem very familiar," John told Stiles.

"You've probably seen me around town," Stiles replied. "I'm staying with the Hale family for a little while. I'm Sam. Sam Smith."

John nodded. "John Stilinkshi, and this is Melissa McCall. I'd ask whether those two were yours, but I've seen them around enough to recognize them as Talia's."

"Definitely not ours," Peter agreed.

And, because he couldn't help himself, Stiles added, "I suppose those two munchkins are yours, though," gesturing between John and Melissa.

Their outspoken denials were satisfyingly exactly like they'd been in the future. Soon after, they parted, returning to their respective benches, and Stiles just discreetly watched John and Melissa as they settled into a conversation.

"That is who you'd give up, if you stayed," Peter finally said. "He's why you're hesitating."

Stiles hummed, staring at his father, unable to get enough of a look, and eventually said, "He's dead, in my future. I buried him two years ago."

He hadn't lied, when he'd said he liked his dragon story better than the real thing. The McCall pack had killed a dragon, that much was true, but when their victorious party had returned, they'd found Stiles' father had been kidnapped. Stiles had searched through his notes for something, anything that could've taken him, trying to make the clues fit a supernatural creature's signature. He'd searched through his own past and his father's, looking for someone the sheriff could've pissed off enough to kidnap him. When they'd finally worked it out, it was too late.

But that had been two years ago, and Stiles was some kind of twisted version of alright, at least when he wasn't thinking of his dad. Returning to the past hadn't helped much, when it came to dragging up the past.

"Then it's your alpha."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Are you really trying to use my emotional state to get information?" It was so patently Peter that Stiles was amused despite his grief.

"It's a good opportunity," Peter replied, and after a moment of hesitation, he placed his hand on Stiles', lacing their fingers together.

It was more comforting than it should have been, more comfort than Stiles had allowed himself for a long while. He didn't know when Peter had even become someone who could lend him comfort, instead of being someone Stiles was always alert around.

It was nice.

.

Peter never stopped asking about the future, but Stiles stopped minding it. He was always careful with his information, but as his time in the past tipped into the second half of the month and Peter's office became more and more familiar, he talked more openly about the future.

Eventually, Peter asked, "What answer would you have accepted, when you asked what I told you on the beach? Because my answer was true; I don't like the beach. It's filled with screaming children, nosy parents, and giggling hormonal teenagers. And the sand gets everywhere. I'm sure my older self had the same opinion."

"He probably did," Stiles replied, "Though he never really said."

He never got the chance to. The only time their pack had visited the beach, it was to investigate a disappearance of a young woman who'd been said to have been taken away by a large, blue-eyed wolf. Stiles and Peter had been investigating the northern part of the beach, and had been for a week already. They hadn't been expecting anything to happen; they'd thought the lone wolf had moved on.

They'd been talking about something, arguing maybe—Stiles didn't remember what anymore. It had been three years ago.

And Peter had said, "I've been meaning to tell you something."

It wasn't going to be an expression of undying love. It was probably something along the lines of, "You have a terrific ass." Because Stiles had a feeling it was Peter's goal in life to be set on fire for the third time.

Peter's next, and last, words were, "Watch out!" as the wolf attacked, revealing itself to be an alpha instead of a beta, and far more powerful than they could've assumed.

They'd burned the alpha's body right there on the beach, but taken Peter's body back to Beacon Hills, and buried him next to Laura. Derek hadn't said anything against Peter being buried next to the woman he killed, and Stiles thought that maybe, he'd been able to forgive Peter just enough to deal with him. Just enough to mourn him when he died.

It hadn't been one of the pack's greatest moments, and the moments only got worse from there, culminating in the death of Stiles' father.

"I don't know what the right answer," Stiles finally said, and after a moment of hesitation. "It was a long time ago."

"I have a feeling I know what it was," Peter replied.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Peter said, and brought his lips to Stiles' in response.

Peter was a murderer in Stiles' future and a manipulator in his present, but within moments Stiles' hands were running through Peter's hair, and their lips continued to meet in a passionate kiss.

It was only broken by a client arriving early, and even then their separation was reluctant.

.

Stiles was always someone who'd defined people by their actions and inactions, and so in the future Peter had always been the man who'd killed Laura Hale. He was the man who'd tried to kill Stiles, the man who'd turned Scott, the man who helped them defeat the alpha pack, the man who'd saved Stiles' life multiple times.

But now, like with everyone else in the past, Stiles' labels for Peter had to change. He wasn't a murderer. He wasn't (that much of) a creep. He hadn't bitten anyone.

Or at least, that was Stiles' justification for becoming a more frequent visitor at Peter's apartment rather than his office.

.

The first time he stayed overnight, he almost regretted doing the walk of shame back to the Hale house. Judging by Derek's expression and near-yell of, "Oh god, I don't want to know, I don't want to know," Derek wasn't all that fond of the idea of anyone having sex with Peter.

"Know what?" Matt had asked.

"A werewolf's sense of smell matures during puberty," Talia had said, ruffling her youngest son's hair.

Stiles didn't know which expression was worse: Derek's horrified one or Talia's thoughtful one.

  
.

He'd realized from the very first kiss that this was a bad idea. Not the worst he'd ever had, but up there. Stiles knew that if there was anything that can keep him in the past, it was this. It was Peter's wit, his charm, his smile, his kiss; it was the passionate way he kissed Stiles, the careful way he fucked him, the easy conversation between them. And Stiles liked Peter's sarcasm, his spark, the wave of his hair, the color of his eyes, the way he smiled when Stiles caught one of his games. It wasn't fair, that this man wasn't in his future; but even then it wouldn't have been the same, because it was this Peter who Stiles cared for, not the other.

"I will miss you, so much," he said against Peter's lips, just days before his month was up.

Peter just kissed him again. "So stay."

Stiles ran his hand along Peter's cheek, wanting to stay as close as he could for a moment more. "You wouldn't respect me, if I stayed," he told him. Family had always been important to Peter, save for the time he'd been insane. And Stiles... Stiles' pack was hale and whole, out there in the future.

Peter's lips curled into a smile. "Of course I would. I'd even respect you in the morning."

"I wouldn't," Stiles told him. It was one of the truest things he'd ever said in this strange world. And with that, he finally let himself pull away from Peter's embrace.

"There isn't anything I can do, I suppose," Peter said, rubbing his thumb over Stiles' wrist and loosening his grip.

Stiles shivered, but didn't give in to sensation. "No," he finally said. "It's not— It's not you."

"Of course it isn't."

"No, that's not what meant." _It's not that I don't want you,_ Stiles thought futilely. _It's that there are some things I want more. Very, very few things._

"I understand," Peter replied, his voice still cold.

And— and that was all there was to it, right? There wasn't a way for Stiles to have everything he wanted; he was too old to believe in fairy tales and perfect endings. He'd watched too many people die to believe in that.

Stiles exited Peter's apartment and leaned against the door, knowing Peter would know he'd lingered but not caring. His mind was spinning, searching, calculating, but everything seemed to rest on an inevitable truth: he valued his pack, his best friend, his brother, his alpha, his everything of twenty years over the possibility of an amazing future with Peter.

_We could've been something great._

Tears prickled at his eyes, and he thought that maybe, this feeling in his chest was something like love.

But Stiles didn't have the time for love, and eventually pushed himself off the door and took the stairs down to the first floor of Peter's apartment building. He would go back to the Hales' house, he decided, and just stay there for the next few days until his month was up. For the first time in a while, Stiles really didn't want to see Peter. And he doubted Peter wanted to see him.

He was barely out of the building when he felt a sharp pain in his neck, one he'd felt once before. Once Gerard and his band of unethical hunters had learned of his powers, they'd been quick to change their strategy from physical violence first to drugged kidnapping with the violence coming afterward. Stiles was quick to pull the syringe dart from his neck, letting it clatter to the ground, but its effects were already taking hold. He couldn't think straight, couldn't focus.

No one but the Hales knew of his emissary status in the past, and Stiles almost felt betrayed. But too soon, he saw a large black van pull up to the building and a team of hunters armed to the teeth step out. Stiles tried to move back into the apartment complex, but his body felt as weak as his spark.

All he could do was yell, "Peter!" and hope the werewolf heard him.

Within seconds Stiles heard Peter's growl and heard the sounds of a scuffle, but soon, he was passed out on the floor of a van as it drove away.


	4. Chapter 4

As the black van carrying Stiles away drove off, two of the hunters made the mistake of staying back. Peter's smile was savage enough for one of the hunters to take a step back.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" the hunter asked.

The other one just readied her gun, said, "Shut up," and shot.

There weren't any passerby, not at this time, so Peter allowed himself to let his claws loose as he dodged left and used the building wall to propel himself at the closest hunter. He ignored the other one for a moment as he landed, claws sinking into her fragile human skin, and was almost hit with a bullet for his inattention. The other hunter didn't have a good shot, not anymore, and grabbed a knife instead, lunging as the woman tried to fight him off.

Peter wondered what exactly a knife was going to do; unless the hunter dug it in really deep, Peter would heal too fast for it to do much damage. When the knife got close enough to slice him, Peter hissed as he realized it was coated with wolfsbane. Just one stab, and he would be in a very bad position.

But the hunters were in a worse position, because with one quick motion, Peter grabbed the female hunter's wrist and made his way up to the gun in her hand. It was pointed between them, and as they fought and shifted it about, the gun went off. Both hunters stilled; one because the bullet had struck her heart, the other out of shock.

Peter pulled the gun out of the dead hunter's hand and pointed it at the remaining hunter. "Drop the knife." Once it was on the ground, Peter rolled the corpse toward the man. "Pick her up and go inside the building. It's apartment 3B. Don't worry about getting lost; I'll be right behind you."

"I'm not going to tell you anything," the hunter argued, but did as he was ordered.

Even as Peter picked up the knife, his gun continued to aim at the hunter's head. Peter's parents, the alpha and alpha's mate of the original Beacon Hills Hale pack, had focused more on werewolf techniques, but they hadn't skimped on less supernatural forms of offense. He knew his way around a gun, even if he preferred his claws.

Three scuffles, one black eye (for the hunter), and one almost successful escape attempt later, the man was bound to a chair with thick rope and divested of any weapons he'd had on him.

"You're not going to get away with this," the hunter said. "Someone must've seen you."

Peter ignored him, and picked up the same knife that had left a slowly healing wound along his arm. He tossed it in the air a few times, getting a feel for it and relishing in the hunter's growing fear.

Good. His cohorts had taken Stiles; they deserved all the fear Peter could dish out, and more.

Talia wouldn't approve, of course. But Peter wouldn't ask for approval nor permission, not for this. He pressed his knife against the man's cheek, and smelled the blood before he saw it. "Tell me who sent you."

It took four strokes before the hunter finally gasped, "Gerard."

Peter's knife stilled. There was only one Gerard it could be, the bane of supernatural creatures everywhere.

He shifted the knife. "Finish the name."

"Argent."

Peter twitched, his hand tightening around the blade out of habit as he thought of the nearly legendary hunter. Gerard Argent was said to have a hundred werewolf kills to his name, and though it had to be an exaggeration, it wasn't far from the truth; there had been a Hale pack in Arizona at one point, whose alpha had been Peter and Talia's cousin. They'd been found out by hunters five years ago, and after Gerard had arrived on the scene, it was only hours before everyone had died. The rest of the Hales had wanted to get revenge ever since, but Talia was wary of confronting the man.

And now, Gerard had taken another person from them, one much more precious than any distant cousins Peter had barely known.

Peter was out of his depth more often than he'd like to appear. It came with the territory, whichever one you want to pick: growing up, being a werewolf, dealing with various supernatural creatures. He had plans to remedy that one day; whatever Talia said about handing over her power to him when she died, he knew she wasn't going to kick the bucket anytime soon. More importantly, he didn't want her to.

But never had fear crept through his veins like now; never had he been so surprised to care so much about someone. Usually, it was the other way around. (His sister would be so pleased to know how far he'd come in empathy. How he'd learned to care for someone outside the pack. But it was an experience Peter would try only once, he decided, because pack couldn't leave like stray time-travelers could.) But he did care. He cared about their past (the way Stiles looked at him the first time a confused want had entered his eyes and smell), their present (kissing Stiles just an hour ago, until Stiles whimpered with need and moaned Peter's name), and their future (watching Stiles disappear as abruptly as he'd appeared, hopefully taking Peter's wretched, traitorous feelings with him). The Argents couldn't have him; Stiles was his to let go, not theirs to take. Peter would get him back, if only to watch him walk away.

Instead of listing more names, the hunter began to beg. "Please, spare me. I have a wife. Two kids."

Peter just raised an eyebrow.

"There's pictures. In my wallet."

Despite himself, Peter was curious, and pulled the man's wallet out of his pocket. He was almost disappointed when it turned out not to be a ploy to attack him, and even more disappointed when he saw the photos in the wallet didn't look like obvious stock photos. There were two: one of the family at a photographer's studio, dressed in their best clothes and best smiles, and one of two young kids and a dog piling up on the hunter, his wife laughing at the side of the frame, their house in the background.

"We're not supposed to keep photos on us," the hunter rasped, foolishly choosing to speak instead of keeping silent. He didn't even pause when Peter glanced at him. "That's my wife, Ashley, and my kids, Joanna and Kevin. They're one and three. Ash and I only just got married last year, though, because..."

Sentiment. The man was too blunt for manipulation, his face too expressive, so it must have been sentiment that drove him to tell his killer about his life. The faint hope that Peter had a conscience that his cold heart would yield to. Or perhaps he just wanted to die with his wife and kids on his mind.

It didn't matter either way.

"Where is Gerard now?" Peter asked, preparing to make another cut.

"He's probably still driving—no, wait, stop—he's going to a cabin Casey—" a glance at the dead hunter "—owns. It's just northwest of here, probably sixty miles out."

"Tell me more," Peter replied, and the hunter scrambled to do so. Never once did his heartbeat slip into a lie as he told Peter about where the cabin was, how many guards were likely there, the vague reasons Gerard gave him for kidnapping Stiles, and that _please, it was just his first hunt, he hadn't wanted to, he'd just had money problems and his uncle had stepped in and asked him if he wanted a side job in the family business, please._

"There must've been a time when you realized you'd be killing people and could've backed out," Peter said with a scoff.

The hunter bowed his head. "There was. But... Uncle was... I'd never heard him speak like that. He said we'd been doing good in the world, that it was like the missionary trip I took in college. I thought—"

Peter didn't let him think, slamming the blunt end of his knife against the man's head. The hunter passed out easily, and Peter didn't smell the signs of permanent damage or a concussion.

It wasn't sentiment that drove him to untie the man, stuff him in the trunk of his car, and retie him until he couldn't have moved had he had the ability. Not when even Peter couldn't think of a reason to deliver the man to his sister when it would've been so much easier to let him die. Talia would've smelled the blood on him, but she would've assumed it had been shed in self-defense. There was no assumption of self-defense that could be made if she saw the marks on the hunter's face and arms.

And yet, the only thing Talia said when she saw the hunter and heard Peter's explanation was, "We'll get him back."

.

Stiles woke up inside a cage. It was probably the worst place he'd ever found himself in, crammed so tightly that he couldn't fully sit up and resting against cold metal bars. Granted, there weren't many good places to wake up in, not after being drugged and kidnapped, and Stiles had enough experience with Gerard's hospitality to know it could be much, much worse. However, his position wasn't good: his hands were bound, his motion was limited, and his magic didn't seem to be reacting.

"I hope you're not claustrophobic," a voice said, and Stiles looked forward through the bars of his cage to see Gerard sitting on a chair two feet away. Had it been any other situation, the cabin would've looked homey, with its wooden walls, colorful decoration, and large windows. Even Gerard could've passed for a regular middle-aged man taking a break from the office for a while.

"Thankfully, I'm not," Stiles replied. "Neither am I a huge fan of psychological torture."

"You prefer the physical kind? I can arrange it, if necessary."

"I'll pass. What do you want from me?"

Gerard chuckled. "Oh, what don't I want from you?" He stood up and slowly circled Stiles' cage, just looking down and watching him. "I've never met a time traveler before. And certainly not a time travelling emissary."

This wasn't good. Not even a bit. Stiles swallowed, trying not to feel scared. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don't know what you mean."

Gerard placed a hand into his pocket, and Stiles braced himself for a gun, but he only took out a small remote. There was only one button on it, and Gerard swept imaginary specks of dust off of it before he slowly pressed down. Even though he was prepared for pain, Stiles still screamed as electricity ran through the cage. He tried to tighten into himself to avoid the bars, but it was impossible. "Fine!" he yelled, as loudly as he could, and the electricity stopped. The pain took longer to subside, slowly coming down to a more bearable level. "How did you find out?"

"I have my sources," Gerard replied.

Stiles wondered just how close Kate and Derek were already, but knew it could've been so many other things: surveillance, spying, overhearing a private conversation. He himself hadn't been very careful; he'd thought he was safe.

"As for what I mean by everything... you're a very powerful emissary. And well connected, too. It seems you've even met me in the future."

"You want the Hales," Stiles said, his voice hoarse. For all he knew, Gerard already had one Hale; Stiles didn't know if Peter made it out after trying to help him. But Stiles couldn't think of that, not now.

"So short-sighted. Don't you know what an emissary such as yourself can do?"

Stiles shook his head. There were many things he could do; many things he'd love to be doing to Gerard right now. But what did Gerard want? For Stiles to turn against the Hales, killing them with his magic? For Stiles to tell him about the future, Gerard's future specifically?

"You hold in that head of yours a connection to the future of this planet, of every living thing on it. All I want from you is for you to use that connection to bring back the memories of my future self."

Stiles would've thought Gerard was insane, except for the certainty in the man's voice. He was so sure that Stiles could actually do it that Stiles had to wonder if it was actually possible. It wouldn't be the first time that Gerard knew far more about the supernatural than Stiles did. "You can do that?" But even if it was possible in theory, Stiles would never do it for Gerard.

"Of course. Now, are you ready to do it? Or would you prefer to be persuaded?"

"I can't use my magic."

"You should still be able to use the slightest fraction of it. I'm sure that will be enough."

Stiles brought his hands up to the bars of the cage, wrapping them tightly around the metal, looked into Gerard's eyes, and said, "Go to hell." He clenched his teeth just as Gerard pressed the button. This time, he didn't try to avoid the pain.

There was a belief among emissaries that emotional and physical pain could induce a spark to momentarily grow despite barriers. However, it came at the cost of burning through his magic quickly, likely over the course of a couple minutes.

And as an emissary, all Stiles needed to do was believe. He opened his mind wider than it had been in years, like it had been when he was just a regular high school kid, like before he'd learned control. Like the time he'd almost burned his home town. Out here in the wilderness, he didn't need to worry. He could put out a forest fire later, and the only ones who would be harmed were Gerard and his hunters. Stiles didn't let himself think about what would happen if it didn't work (pain, so much more pain); he didn't let himself think of what would happen if it worked too well (killing Gerard, a deliberate change of the past, locking him into this time). He just believed.

Metal melted beneath his fingers, turning into a silver liquid that rained onto the cabin floor. Stiles kept a piece of the metal, shaping it into a bat, and through it at his captor.

Gerard hit the wall with a loud bang, and Stiles collapsed with a quieter thump as he found he couldn't hold himself up any longer. The liquid metal didn't hurt him, as filled with his magic as it was, but it didn't help any as Stiles laid there and tried to get his body to move. He hadn't thought his attack would sap so much magic, hadn't thought about what would happen now that he had no pack to back him up.

A groan came from the other side of the cabin, and Gerard haltingly began to push himself up. He didn't touch the bat, instead opting to grab a gun from one of the kitchenette drawers.

 _Fuck,_ Stiles thought. There was no other word to sum up how screwed he was as Gerard began to walk over to him, probably wanting to make sure his shot didn't miss. Gerard's hand was wobbly, but any closer and it wouldn't matter.

Gerard was only a foot away when the cabin door slammed open. A body of a vaguely familiar hunter had been thrown into it, causing it to fly off its hinges and onto the floorboards.

Stiles smiled through the blood in his mouth. "Looks like my other pack has arrived."

Gerard just cursed and aimed the gun at the door, waiting for the Hale pack to come through. "Show yourselves!" he called out.

He received no response, and began to inch towards the door. The hunter on the ground began to stir and shift, standing up despite his broken arm.

"This is quite the party," said a familiar voice, and Peter walked into the cabin, a gun aimed straight at Gerard's head. Talia and Anton followed him, both armed and alert.

Stiles could've kissed him, he was so relieved. "You're late."

Peter glanced toward Stiles, and Talia took his place as he went to help Stiles. "We got a bit held up." Taking care to aim his gun away from them, Peter helped Stiles stand up, and kept his arm under Stiles' shoulder as they stumbled over to the others.

Talia and Gerard were talking, arguing about something, but they quieted when Stiles and Peter approached. "You need to let him go," Stiles said.

"Funny," Peter replied. "I didn't realize Stockholm syndrome set in so early. Or did you hit your head?"

"They need to stay alive," Stiles said, but none of the werewolves seemed to care. Gerard was needed for Stiles' future, even if Stiles didn't personally want him to live. But he could barely lift his head, let alone stop a group of werewolves bent for revenge.

"Of all the people in the world... This man is the only one I can't spare," Talia said, and cocked her gun.

Stiles began to gather what little strength he had, but stopped as he heard, "You heard the kid."

Someone screamed, like a banshee with no training, and Stiles was the first to see the flames erupt from near the door, from the emissary who'd arrived just in time. The yell had come from Gerard's man, who was stumbling away from the fire. Stiles might have done the same; he knew what it was like, to see Alona start a fire, the way she strung the flame from her mouth and threw it down. It would burn until she willed it to stop.

It sped forward, wrapping around the Hales and dividing the two groups with a barrier of burning towers.

Gerard and his surviving hunters were closest to the exit, and Stiles said, "Gerard, take your men and go. But know that the next time I see you, I won't be as lenient."

"I'm needed for the future, I see," Gerard said, an ugly smile on his lips.

"Every fairytale needs a cliched villain," Stiles replied, and watched until every last hunter left the cabin. The werewolves watched them warily, but didn't move. Once their engines had started and tires began turning, the fires in the room vanished with a sharp crack. While Talia went to see if the hunters actually left, Stiles turned toward Alona. "Fire, really?" Not that it hadn't been impressive, but it had been overkill. Stiles knew she could've been less destructive.

"There was always going to be a fire," she told him. "Why not make it a good one? No deaths. No casualties. Not even the for hunters."

"Maybe one death," Peter corrected.

Stiles couldn't bring himself to care. Whoever the hunter had been, her death hadn't caused the future to disappear; when he concentrated, he could still feel his connection to it. Nothing had changed, except for an idea fluttering through Stiles' mind, one that would soon bloom into a plan. But for now, Peter's hold was warm and steady, the Hales had come through for him despite his refusal to help them, and Stiles was safe.

.

The next day was the day after his mandatory month in the past, and no one was surprised when Stiles quietly left the house after waking up. As soon as he was awake, Stiles gathered his things and walked out, not stopping to talk to anyone on his way. There was too much uncertain, too much Stiles didn't quite know yet; it could all still work out, but Stiles couldn't give the Hales hope and take it away.

He'd been saved in the late hours of the morning, and had ended up sleeping most of the day, so the sky was beginning to darken as he left. He didn't take a car, simply walking along the Hales' long driveway and toward town. In the back of his mind, Stiles knew where to go. The nemeton called to him like it hadn't in a long while, and Stiles knew he could step onto its broken trunk and return to his own time. Everything he'd done in the past would just disappear, never impacting the events of Stiles' future.

But instead of taking a turn from the driveway of the Hales' home and walking into the forest, he continued along the beaten path, walking until he reached a house he knew almost as well as his own. It looked exactly like it had in Stiles' future, when Melissa and her new husband lived there, instead of now, when Melissa and Scott occupied it. Having done it many times, Stiles climbed onto the first level of the roof and carefully made his way to Scott's window, which he unlocked with a bit of well-placed wolfsbane.

Stiles had forgotten what a mess Scott's room had been before he'd had Allison to impress, and stepped over various clothes, toys, and video games. He sat onto the chair in the corner of the room, feeling a bit like Derek, and waited. It was dark before the door opened and Scott walked inside, absently throwing his bag on his bed and closing the door. Before he turned on the light, Stiles said, "Hey, Scottie."

Scott jumped and spun around, peering at Stiles through the darkness. "...Stiles?" he asked, uncertainly.

"Yeah," Stiles said, swallowing. "It's me."

"You look weird," Scott replied, walking closer and sitting down on the bed across from Stiles' chair. His dangled from the bed, not even reaching the floor, and this close Stiles could see exactly how young his friend was. He fought the impulse to just leave, to just forget about this hackney plan.

"I know. I'm going to do something strange, okay? But—look, I'm still me."

"Okay," Scott said, and Stiles gave a broken laugh because it wasn't fair, how much he wanted his best friend back.

Stiles placed a finger on Scott's head, and Scott let him, ignoring every warning he'd ever gotten about stranger danger. He trusted Stiles, even when Stiles wasn't trustworthy in the slightest. Stiles made too many choices, good and bad and good and evil, to ever trust himself with someone as good as the kid Scott used to be.

Nothing happened, at first, and Stiles thought he'd been an idiot, to trust the words and ideas of Gerard. He concentrated harder, pulling on the future and the nemeton and the connection in his mind. He thought of the older Scott, over six feet tall, tattooed, attempting to grow a beard. He thought of Scott's kindness, his strength, his loyalty. He thought of the one friend he couldn't lose. He left a small tether between their minds, one that would allow him to take Scott's memories away. One that would make sure he didn't permanently change this reality; that would come later, if things worked out.

When Scott opened his eyes again and met Stiles', there was a depth to them that hadn't been there a minute ago. Stiles let his finger fall from Scott's forehead.

Scott hugged him tightly for a moment, then let go. "Stiles! Fuck, where've you been? You've been missing for a month. We looked for you everywhere."

"Shhh," Stiles said, glancing toward the door and waiting a couple heartbeats, until he was sure Melissa hadn't heard them.

Scott followed his gaze. His brow furrowed. "What..." He trailed off as he looked around his room and looked down at his body, small and youthful. "Are we...?"

"In the past," Stiles agreed, and began to tell the story of the last month, beginning with his forceful arrival in Deaton's back room, glossing over the kidnapping, and ending with the words, "This is more than a little crazy, but, how do you feel about staying in the past?"

"It's not like this is the craziest plan you've come up with," Scott replied. "But can you bring the others' memories back, too?"

"Everyone who's alive in our future, yeah."

Scott nodded. "There's a lot we could do."

"A lot of people we could save," Stiles replied. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

And with Scott's words, Stiles finally let himself imagine a future with both his pack and Peter. He reached deep inside himself, to the part that wasn't quite right, the part that kept moving, fluctuating, joining and unjoining with the future. He pulled on his pack bonds, not the ones in the past, but the ones in the future, and brought them toward him as the future that now would never be dimmed and died. Gold erupted in Stiles' vision, and for a long moment, it was all he could see. When he opened his eyes, there was quiet in his head. "It's done."

"Then let's find our pack."

.

Scott and Stiles made their way to the abandoned train station, where only Boyd was waiting for them. Stiles gave him a fist bump for guessing where they'd come, since their pack house was probably occupied by someone else, and the Hale house was a big no.

"Don't come," Stiles texted, the message reaching Talia, Peter, and all the Hales with a cell phone.

When Stiles gave the signal of the Hale pack's affirmations, Scott climbed up onto the roof of the station. Stiles felt it when Scott found the power of a true alpha inside himself, cementing their pack's bonds once again. Once he was ready, he rocked on his heels twice, cupped his hands around his mouth, and let a loud roar erupt from his lips. It reverberated throughout the area and beyond, calling everyone in the know towards them. Stiles didn't hear an echo from the rest of their pack, and was glad that despite being in their younger bodies, his friends were smarter than that.

They didn't have to wait long until one by one, the McCall pack arrived.

First was Erica, dressed in teddy bear pajamas and pink flip flops, her blonde hair in a braid. Next came Isaac, looking so much more delicate than he had in the future, and much more able to carry bruises. Lydia's hair was perfect when she arrived, and she was fully dressed and fully pissed about _whatever you've done this time, Stiles_. It didn't prevent her from hugging him tightly. Allison didn't live nearby, but Stiles had a feeling that she would be coming within the next few days, from wherever her family was living now. Jackson and Danny were incurable idiots, and had actually stolen a parent's car and driven to the train station.

"I wasn't going to walk all the way here," Jackson huffed as he stepped out of the car.

"We didn't crash, at least," Danny added.

"You should be more worried about getting pulled over," Boyd said, and rolled his eyes when Jackson muttered something about his dad.

"So now that we're all here, are you going to tell us why we're... in the past?" Lydia asked.

For the second time that night, Stiles told his story, and gave them a choice. "You can choose to discard the memories if you want," Stiles offered. "We'll make sure your life turns out well, and you won't have to deal with the bullshit of a second puberty and being way too old to ever date in our age group."

"My girlfriend's also... seven years old?" Jackson glanced at Lydia. "Ew, but I think I'll somehow be able to deal."

The rest chimed in with agreements. Romantically, it worked out for Scott and Allison, Jackson and Lydia, Isaac and Danny. Boyd and Erica weren't so lucky, but it wasn't like they could date anytime soon, and as Erica said, "I've always liked older men, anyway."

The only seven year old left out of their group was Stiles' younger self, and he'd have to do something about that, eventually. Stiles doubted his younger self would deal well with his friends suddenly leaving him out of things. He could always share his memories with his younger self, at least up to his arrival in the past. (Because he wasn't going to share his love for Peter. That was his, and his alone.)

Eventually, dawn began to come, and Scott said, "Alright. You're free to go loose on the world. Try not to fuck things up." After a decision to meet the next day, the group dispersed. But before Scott left, he looked back at Stiles. "Are you sure you want to go alone?"

Stiles nodded. "I've got to explain everything, and dude, your mom's going to freak if she wakes up and her seven year old isn't in bed."

"She'll already freak a bit about Isaac," Scott replied. But it would be an easy fix, with the way that even in the darkness Isaac's bruises were clear. "Let me know if you need me."

"Will do."

With that, Stiles drove back along the familiar road to the Hale house, and wasn't surprised to see Talia and Peter standing on the porch. Their expressions were serious as they motioned him to come inside. He followed them into the most soundproof room of the house, where Anton was already waiting, and said, needlessly, "I changed the future."

"That's not all you did," Peter replied.

Stiles ignored him for the moment, because this wasn't the time. The most important thing was, "There's a hunter named Kate Argent—acting outside of her family's influence—who is going to trap you all in this house next summer, and burn you to death." It felt liberating, to finally have the freedom to say what he wanted.

"How? We haven't caused conflict. There is no one in this town who's even suspicious, and we haven't done anything that violates the code," Talia said. "Who tells her about us?"

Reluctantly, Stiles revealed, "She's Derek's English teacher. They're... not currently involved, but eventually they are."

It was an hour of speaking, shouting, and revealing until Stiles finally got to Peter's comment, and said, "I seek permission on behalf of the McCall pack to share Beacon Hills with yours." He could've asked them for permission before he told them. But it would've been cruel, to barter for their lives.

And yet, there was little Talia could say but, "You have it."

.

When all was said and done, Stiles turned to leave. He felt out of place in this home, more so than before he'd made his decision.

He was almost at the door when he heard Peter call out, "Wait a moment. I'll get my coat."

Stiles turned around, watching Peter stride over like nothing was wrong. "I didn't think you'd still want me," he said, haltingly.

"Then you're an idiot."

"I'm still another alpha's second in command."

"Will he always come first?"

"No." It was true. Stiles had only known this version of Peter a month, and there was so much to learn and get past and love. But he could almost see the way they could be, a year down the line. A decade. More importantly, he wanted to be there, to see it.

"Then I'm not planning to leave my future mate behind."

"You wish, creeperwolf," Stiles said, but his words were bellied by the brilliant smile spreading over his face. Because he did wish, he wished so much. Just the word, mates, sounded good. His heart skipped a beat when Peter took Stiles' hand in his as they walked out the door, and his smile couldn't get wider. "I didn't know where I was going to go," Stiles admitted.

"I'll take you home with me," Peter murmured.

"Could you drop me off at my dad's tomorrow? I've... well, I've got some things to tell him. My dad's got a strong enough heart right now. It won't kill him to know he has another son out there."

"Be sure to phrase it exactly that way," Peter replied, curling his fingers around Stiles'. Stiles could almost see his dad's face as he'd try to not have a heart attack from trying to remember each and every time he could've gotten someone pregnant. But his father would be fine; he'd deal with the knowledge of the supernatural as well as he had in the future. Maybe even better than he had, because this time it would be without the lying and sneaking around, and would come from a son who actually had his shit together. Stiles had a feeling his dad would deal less well with the fact that a version of his son was now going to be dating—hopefully dating? maybe? he'd have to ask Peter what exactly he wanted, what exactly he meant by mate—someone pretty shady and sarcastic and maybe a bit inclined toward killing people.

But for now, Peter was next to him, Scott was aware, his pack safe in their homes, his father was alive, and all was right with Stiles' world.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! All my thanks to everyone who encouraged this fic <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Time Traveler](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160368) by [aForgottenWeasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aForgottenWeasley/pseuds/aForgottenWeasley)




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